


Making a bad day better

by sorcxita



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Age Play, BDSM, Discipline, M/M, Mention of spanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-11-26 08:57:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorcxita/pseuds/sorcxita
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the kinkmeme prompt, "In which Louis is stressed out and the only way to calm him down is with a bottle and cuddles."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"I'm going to run you a bath," Harry says. He doesn't give Louis a chance to protest, not that Louis _will_. He's curled up in a chair by the window, the very picture of misery, his face set in a tight, unhappy scowl, every inch of him radiating tension. He hasn't said a word since Harry got hold of his arm, midway through a long, expletive-filled diatribe aimed at Liam, and told him, very firmly, that it was time for bed before he managed to insult anyone else. Louis was so wound up Harry had wondered, for a moment, if he was going to refuse, but apparently Louis was starting to find himself unbearable too, or maybe it's just that he can't resist Harry. However much of a foul a mood he's in, however irritable he is and however infuriating he's being, he always, _always_ responds to Harry, and Harry wouldn't betray that trust for anything, or refuse Louis' wordless plea for the solace only Harry can give him.

Harry leaves the light off when he goes into the bathroom; with the door left ajar he can see what he's doing perfectly well. He gets the water running, adding some bath foam that smells of cherries, and makes sure the big, fluffy towels are warming on the towel rail. He fills the bath the way Louis likes it, the water steaming hot and nice and deep so Louis can submerge himself in it. Satisfied that everything is ready, Harry goes back out into the main room.

Louis is still sitting exactly where Harry left him; it doesn't look like he's moved an inch in the time Harry has been away and he's still wound up so tightly he looks ready to snap. Harry goes over to him and stands right in front of him, leaning in so he's towering over him, his hands on the arms of the chair, crowding into his personal space. Louis glances up at him and almost immediately looks away.

“Time for your bath,” Harry says. He keeps it quiet, calm, deliberate.

Louis' jaw tightens; a delicate flush spreading across his cheeks that Harry wants to kiss away, except he knows that if he tries that now Louis will have a full-on meltdown. 

“Come on,” he says. “Bath time.” He tugs on Louis' hand, pulling him to his feet. Louis comes reluctantly and Harry gets him no more than two steps towards the bathroom before Louis stops dead and pulls his arm out of the hold Harry has on him. He doesn't say anything, just stands there mulishly, waiting for Harry to react to his bad behaviour. Harry sighs.

“Do I have to spank you again or are you going to do what you're told?”

Louis gives him another quick, skittering glance and shakes his head, but the hitch in his breathing and the bulge in his jeans tell their own story. The last time Louis acted out Harry put him over his lap and spanked him to tears...and then kept going, until Louis was breathless and incoherent, no longer struggling against Harry's hold on him or protesting every smack, but just _taking_ it, gasping every time a smack rocked his hips forward and his cock rubbed against Harry's thigh. He'd been so pliant then, so biddable, and then afterwards he'd been sleepy-eyed and languid in Harry's arms, more relaxed and content than Harry had seen him in a while.

Harry very much wants to do it again but he thinks tonight probably isn't the night; they have interviews tomorrow and they'll both be in trouble if Louis can't sit without squirming. 

“We'll wait until we get home for that,” he decides. “But I won't forget about it.”

Louis nods, a tiny, almost imperceptible nod, and Harry thrills at the acceptance. His mind is already racing with plans for the future, for when they have time and privacy to explore the limits of what Louis will let him do. He likes the idea of keeping track, a notebook maybe, or a chart, something that Louis can look at and see how many smacks he's going to get next time Harry punishes him. And maybe – Harry's thought about this more than he'd like to admit – he'll keep track of good behaviour too, because he knows how hard it is for Louis to be honest with himself about how much he wants this, _needs_ this, how much he struggles with giving control over to Harry sometimes even if it's what they both need.

But he needs to deal with Louis _now_ and that means giving him a gentle push towards the bathroom. This time Louis goes without argument, even undressing himself without needing to be told. Harry lets him get into the bath on his own and then he picks up a facecloth and settles himself down next to the bath so he can starts washing Louis. Louis sits placidly while Harry soaps him quickly but thoroughly, only biting back a yelp when Harry deliberately rasps the coarse fabric of the facecloth across the head of his half-hard cock.

“On all fours,” Harry directs, and Louis immediately moves to comply, manoeuvring himself onto hands and knees, his head hanging down so his face is only just above the water's surface, perhaps so Harry won't see his reaction when Harry, tempted by such unrestricted access to Louis' body, slowly trails the facecloth across Louis' lower back before teasing his hole with just a corner of the cloth. Harry _feels_ the reaction though, and the quiver in Louis' voice when he says softly, breathlessly:

“ _Harry_...”

Harry does it again, just to watch how Louis' hole clenches at the fleeting touch. He doesn't have Louis' gift for words – Louis has a way of telling Harry to do something that seems to trigger something buried deep in Harry's soul and Harry has no idea how he manages to do that – but he's learned that actions speak louder than words where Louis is concerned; what he needs is Harry's care and attention, not his words, and Harry is always ready to give him those.

“I think you're done,” he says, and Louis groans. Harry has to help him out of the bath, half-lifting him and wrapping him in a towel before setting him down on the counter-top so Harry can pat him dry. Once he's satisfied that Louis is done, Harry spreads another towel out on the floor and gets Louis down from the counter-top, arranging him on his side with his legs drawn up. Louis grumbles at having to lie on the floor, which Harry ignores, and he yelps and starts at the cold when Harry pushes the first slicked finger inside him, just to the first knuckle to start with, moving his finger in and out, tortuously slowly, until Louis is whining and begging for more. By the time Harry is fucking him with three fingers Louis is visibly struggling; his cock is hard against his stomach, leaking copiously, and his hands are fisted in the towel as he fights the twin urge to fuck back against Harry's fingers and to get a hand on his own cock.

Harry watches him closely, fascinated by Louis' refusal to give in even when he's desperate to come, and equally determined to make sure he _doesn't_ by stopping abruptly when Louis gets too close. Ignoring Louis' whimpers of frustration, he carefully withdraws his fingers and gets to his feet, trusting that Louis won't rut against the towel while he washes his hands.

He doesn't, though his face is pinched in concentration and his eyes are screwed shut, his breathing fast and shallow as he fights for control. Harry loves him like this, desperate, determined, ready for Harry to help him over the last hurdle. 

“I got you a present,” he says casually, reaching for his _other_ washbag, the one that doesn't travel in _his_ luggage, just in case. He can only imagine the newspaper headlines if anyone ever found out about it.

Louis opens his eyes and then his eyes get rounder as he sees what Harry is holding. Harry flicks the light on so he can see it more clearly.

“Like it? They had all different colours but this one goes with your bottle. Look, Winnie the Pooh.”

Louis can't take his eyes off the pacifier Harry is holding. Harry's bought adult-sized stuff before from the same place but he hadn't thought of a pacifier, hadn't even considered it until recently. Going by Louis' reaction he's starting to think he should have bought one earlier.

Louis sits up, eagerly opening his mouth so Harry can slide the pacifier right in. The teat is big enough to mostly fill his mouth, the plastic mouthguard presses firmly against his lips. Harry is ready to pull it straight out if Louis doesn't like it but Louis starts to suck on it right away.

“Good, yeah?”

Louis nods, eyes closing in contentment. Normally he's a nightmare to get dressed in his fleecy sleepsuit, whining and acting out like an actual toddler, but the pacifier seems to be doing its job and he lies pliant and loose-limbed while Harry dresses him and fastens the shoulder snaps before clipping the pacifier onto the sleepsuit. Harry lets Louis curl up on the sofa in front of the TV, wrapped in a blanket, while Harry lets out the bathwater and cleans up in the bathroom and takes his own shower.

Dried off and dressed in boxers and t shirt, Harry goes back to his washbag and fishes out Louis' bottle and feeding bib. He has a small carton of milk ready to go in the bottle and it doesn't take him long to get everything ready for Louis.

Louis is curled up under his blanket, pacifier still firmly in mouth, but when he sees the bottle in Harry's hand he sits up and spits the pacifier out, gazing hopefully at Harry. Harry shakes his head at him and puts the pacifier back in his mouth.

“ _Wait_.”

Louis pouts, as much as he can with his mouth filled and the plastic guard covering his lips. He might be annoyed but he can't seem to stop himself sucking on the pacifier and Harry files _that_ one away for future reference. 

Harry settles himself on the sofa, arranging Louis against him so that Louis is cradled against his chest. As he ties the feeding bib around Louis neck, Louis gazes up at him, adoring and sweetly trusting, and the magnitude of that trust hits Harry as hard as it did the first time they ever did this.

“Love you,” he says softly, petting Louis' hair. “Let me take care of you, yeah?”

Louis nods. Harry gently tugs out the pacifier and replaces it with the oversized teat of the bottle. Louis latches on at once, his face going slack, eyes glazing over as he starts to suck. Harry continues to pet him, murmuring quiet reassurance. Harry's not sure Louis even hears the actual words, but it's the tone that counts, the soothing rumble of Harry's voice.

“Such a good boy,” he says when he takes the bottle away for a moment to let Louis get his breath back. He rubs Louis' stomach gently, rucking the fabric of his sleepsuit. “Such a good little boy for me...”

Harry hasn't even finished speaking when Louis' body suddenly goes very still and he makes a soft, breathy little sound as he comes in his sleepsuit from nothing more than the friction of fabric against his skin. Harry cuddles him through it, stroking his hair soothingly. When Louis stops shuddering, he carefully sets the bottle aside and wipes Louis' lips with the bib. Louis' eyelids flutter when Harry gives him his pacifier but he doesn't protest, just starts to suck weakly on it, his hand fisting into the front of Harry's t shirt as he snuggles against him.

“Sleep now,” Harry tells him as he wraps the blanket more closely around him. “I'll be here when you wake up.” And then, because he can never tell Louis this enough, he adds, “I love you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So last time Harry was thinking about spanking Louis.. this is the spanking ;-)

Louis’ just _good_ at handling phone calls like the one he’s engrossed in now, in a way Harry will never be. He doesn’t have the same powers of concentration and his mind starts drifting while the other person’s talking. Louis always jokes about Harry agreeing to anything just to end the conversation but there’s more than a little truth in it. Louis has that ability to concentrate to the exclusion of everything else, when he puts his mind to it, and he also has the knack of knowing when to turn on the charm and when to be ruthless, when to let that razor-sharp tongue of his come out to play. Even on a day like today, when he’s tired and jet-lagged and into that zone beyond exhaustion where he’s running mostly on tea and adrenaline, he’s still on it, still in control. 

Harry keeps an eye on him all the same while he unpacks their suitcases, a job that should really have been done yesterday except there’s never any _time_ to do things like that because there’s always just one more interview, one more photoshoot, one more meeting. Their bodyclocks are still set on the wrong timezone and Harry was awake half the night, finally managing to fall asleep just before dawn. Harry knows it’s worse for Louis; he can’t get himself to sleep at all. There are dark smudges under his eyes and his hand trembles a little with exhaustion as he hunts around for a notebook to jot down some notes but, as he’s already yelled at Harry twice, he’s not _sleepy_. He’s too wired to wind down, alternately manic and argumentative and offensively cheerful. It’s driving Harry up the wall and he’s already thinking about going out for the rest of the afternoon, letting Louis come down in his own time, when he hears a yell from the other room and the distinct sound of something smashing.

Harry just knows what it is Louis’ smashed before he enters the room.

“I’ll ring you back,” Louis tells whoever he’s on the phone to, thumbing the phone off before the person on the other end has a chance to object. He glances guiltily at Harry, and then looks away and down at the floor.

Harry looks down too, at the smashed fragments of glass spread across the floor at Louis’ feet. “What happened?” he asks, although he has a good idea of what Louis was doing with the vase he bought for his mum. Louis had spent hours when he’d first bought it doing silly poses with it because he said – though Harry couldn’t see the resemblance – that it looked like an Oscar. 

To Harry’s relief, Louis doesn’t even try to make an excuse or pretend that he hadn’t been messing around with it again. He just stands in the middle of the mess he’s made, clutching his phone awkwardly in one hand, guilty and downcast.

“It slipped out of my hands,” he says eventually, in a very small voice. “Sorry, Haz.” 

It’s not the voice – or the facial expression – he uses when he’s deliberately trying to sweet-talk Harry into not being angry at him; this is a genuinely contrite Louis, temporarily stripped of all the manic energy and the buoyancy and the momentum. Harry just watches him for a moment. He’s not particularly angry about the vase: in retrospect he’s not even sure his mum would have _liked_ it, but Louis ignored a specific request Harry made and that does annoy him.

“I asked you not to mess with it,” he says eventually.

Louis studies the floor intently, biting his lip. “Yeah.”

It occurs to Harry, belatedly, that there are glass shards all over the floor. “Have you hurt your feet?”

Louis shakes his head. “No.”

“Fine. Stay still while I get it cleaned up. Don’t move.”

He should have known, of course, that Louis _wouldn’t_ stay still, barefoot and surrounded by broken glass. He’s only gone for a few minutes, fetching a dustpan and brush, but by the time he gets back Louis has managed to get not one but two splinters and is hopping around on one foot, clutching the heel of the other and swearing loudly and colourfully. Harry tells him to stand still, _again_ , while he brushes up as much glass as he can see, and then he makes Louis sit on the windowsill while Harry examines his foot.

“At least you haven’t bled all over the floor,” he tells him.

“Hey, bit of sympathy here, Haz.”

“You used up the sympathy this morning,” Harry says, patting his ankle. “You’re fine.” He pulls one tiny shard free and Louis yelps.

“Fuck, Haz!”

“It’s a millimetre long. Tiny. Look.”

Harry pulls out the other shard and takes them both away to flush them down the toilet. He comes back with antiseptic wipes and Louis is still sitting forlornly on the windowsill, the pale winter sun highlighting the weary pallor of his skin. 

“Right,” Harry says when he’s carefully cleaned and disinfected each of the tiny cuts. “I don’t think you’re going to die.” Louis starts to get up and Harry puts a hand on his chest, not quite pushing him back but just holding him in place. “We need to talk about this though.”

“Haz…” Louis whines, trying his best puppy dog-eyed expression. 

“We do,” Harry insists, and shows Louis what he’s holding in his hand.

Louis’ face falls. “That’s not fair, Harry,” he says petulantly.

“It _is_ fair.” Harry presses the small scrap of paper into Louis’ hand. “I told you not to touch the vase and you did. And I told you not to move and you did.”

Louis glares at him for a very long moment; his stubborn pride and exhaustion-fuelled irritation warring with the need to give in and accept what Harry is offering. Harry isn’t even entirely sure what the outcome of Louis’ internal struggle is going to be until Louis finally sighs and looks away as his fingers close on the scrap of paper.

“Go on,” Harry says gently. He moves his hand away and helps Louis to his feet, and follows him upstairs. Louis walks slowly, reluctantly, stopping more than once, and each time Harry stops too and waits for him to carry on. 

The room at the end of the hallway is the only one they haven’t really decorated yet, other than a quick coat of white paint to cover up the last owners’ bilious green walls. There’s no furniture yet either, apart from the box that holds Louis’ toys. Harry keeps meaning to get a lock for the door so they don’t have to worry about visitors wandering in and accidentally finding something they shouldn’t and he makes a mental note to get on to that once he’s got Louis settled.

Louis starts a little when Harry closes the door behind them but there’s a subtle change in him too, an easing of tension in the way he holds himself. Harry sees him looking at the box, out of the corner of his eye, but it’s not time for _that_ yet and Harry taps his elbow to get his attention and nods towards the far wall.

“Go on.”

He really wanted to put the bad behaviour chart on the fridge, so Louis would have to see it every day; he thinks he could pass it off as a joke if anyone else saw it. He’s just not sure whether _Louis_ is ready for it, whether the part of Louis that is so desperately ashamed of anything that might be construed as weakness and an inability to cope would be able to deal with seeing the sheet of A4 with primary colour teddy bears printed across the top displayed so publicly for anyone to see and comment on. Even though it’s just the two of them in the room right now Louis is blushing as he peels each red dot off the scrap of paper in turn and carefully sticks them onto the first empty box on the chart.

Maybe he doesn’t mind so much that it’s just for them, Harry thinks. Knowing that he’s the only one - maybe the only one _ever_ \- to see this part of Louis’ multi-faceted psyche is one of the things he likes the most. Knowing that Louis trusts him enough to let him see.

Louis finishes sticking the dots in place and steps back.

“That’s ten in a week,” Harry says, unnecessarily. 

He knows from the way Louis is twisting the scrap of paper between his hands that Louis remembers perfectly well what they agreed and he also knows that Louis is waiting for him to say more. Louis has his back to him and his head bowed but he’s still attuned to Harry’s presence, twitching when Harry clears his throat, breath hitching when Harry takes a step forward. Harry would only have to reach out to touch him, to run his hands over the tense lines of Louis’ shoulderblades and press a kiss against the exposed nape of his neck. 

“I think we should take care of it,” he says instead. “Don’t you?”

Louis’ breathing hitches again and if Harry wasn’t watching him so closely he might have missed the tiny nod Louis gives. Something about it - something about the tilt of Louis’ head - sparks off an unrelated thought and Harry grins to himself and hurries out of the room, down the hallway, to fetch a chair from one of the other bedrooms, an old garden chair his mum had given him when he’d first moved to London. It only takes him a few minutes but his brief absence has left Louis visibly on edge; Harry desperately wants to comfort him and reassure him, and he has to force himself to carry out his original plan.

“There,” he says when he’s arranged the chair in the corner of the room, facing the wall. “Sit there.”

“Why?” There’s a hint of rebellion in Louis’ voice and Harry frowns.

“Do you want another red dot?”

Louis bites his lip and looks down and Harry would feel really, _really_ guilty about that except that he can see how flushed Louis is and how Louis’ erection is tenting his sweatpants. Harry waits until Louis is sat down and then tells him:

“I’m going downstairs for a bit. Don’t move.”

Leaving Louis - even if it’s only for a short while - is partly for Louis and partly for himself. He knows Louis needs the time to get himself in the right headspace, to think about what he’s done and what Harry’s going to do to him. And _he_ needs the time too, because he’s still a little bit angry at Louis and he needs to make sure this isn’t about anger or retribution. This is for Louis, and this is for _them_ , and if it’s going to be done then it needs to be done out of love and concern, every action and reaction borne out of their trust in each other.

When he goes back upstairs, fifteen minutes later, Louis is still sat where Harry left him. He hasn’t moved much, as far as Harry can tell, apart from wrapping his arms around himself. Harry goes up behind him and runs a hand gently through his hair and Louis turns his head to rest his cheek against Harry’s thigh.

“Ready?” Harry asks.

Louis nods, more decisively this time.

“Up you get then,” Harry says. He turns the chair round once Louis is on his feet, making sure he’s going to be comfortable when he sits down and that he’s out of the sightline of either of the two windows. He doesn’t think they’re overlooked but he doesn’t want to take any chances. Once he’s settled and ready, he motions for Louis to position himself.

Harry’s thought about spanking Louis differently, about making him stand facing a wall, or leaning him over something, but the fact is he likes putting Louis over his lap and he suspects Louis likes it like that too. Harry never really thinks about the difference in their heights at other times; it still catches him by surprise, sometimes, that he’s grown so much taller than Louis in the time they’ve known each other, because Louis is _Louis_ and he takes up so much space in Harry’s heart it’s hard to think of him as small. But when he’s tipped over Harry’s lap, and his legs are kicking at the air, and Harry can spread his hand out across Louis’ lower back and just _hold_ him there so Louis is helpless to do anything except take whatever Harry gives him … well, _then_ he thinks about it and he knows Louis can think of nothing else.

It’s just not always _easy_ for Louis to accept it, to deal with being put over Harry’s lap, and sure enough he hesitates, rocking on his heels and avoiding Harry’s eyes. 

“Come on,” Harry says, more gently. He takes hold of Louis’ wrist and tugs him forward, and this time Louis complies, meekly allowing Harry to guide him into position across Harry’s thighs and sighing with something like relief when Harry’s hand presses down to hold him in place. 

“Haz…” Louis mumbles, as Harry works his sweatpants down with his other hand. “’M sorry.”

“I know you are,” Harry says, rubbing over bare skin. “You know why I’m doing this, don’t you?”

Louis nods, a sharp, jerky motion. “Y-yeah.”

Harry gives him a sharp, stinging smack with the flat of his hand, and then another, and Louis gasps and twitches, his fingers clenching and unclenching on nothing as Harry gets into a steady rhythm, one smack after another, warming the skin. He never gets tired of watching Louis’ reaction every time Harry’s hand contacts his skin, his jerky, uncoordinated movements in the first few minutes when he’s not quite adjusted to the pain and has to struggle to stop himself from putting his hands back to protect himself. When Harry thinks Louis is just getting to the point of it starting to _really_ sting, he stops and encourages Louis to stand back up.

“Go and get the hairbrush,” he tells him, and he thinks, for a moment, that Louis might not do it, that he might protest after all. But Louis does it, shuffling over to the box with his sweatpants pooling around his ankles, and roots around in it for a moment before he comes back with the hairbrush Harry bought from a secondhand shop, a solid, workmanlike thing with a long wooden handle and a wide, flat back. Harry hadn’t even intended to buy it, hadn’t exactly been looking. But it had been _right_ to buy it, somehow, and his hunch had been confirmed the moment he’d first showed it to Louis and Louis’ eyes had gone wide.

“Back down for me,” he says when Louis presents him with the hairbrush. Louis doesn’t hesitate this time, letting Harry tip him easily over his knee. “How many dots did you get this week?”

“Ten,” Louis says, his voice muffled.

“And how many smacks are you going to get?”

“T-ten.” Louis’ voice cracks. He _hates_ the hairbrush. 

“If you get this many again, I’m going to make it two smacks for each dot,” Harry tells him. Louis starts to protest just as Harry gives him the first smack and his words cut off abruptly in a pained whoosh of breath. 

Inconsistency is the key with Louis, Harry knows. It’s important to keep him off balance, not let him find a plateau where each sharp crack only maintains the background sting. He gives Louis a series of three quick smacks, not letting him draw breath between each one, then spaces the next three out, letting a minute or more pass between each one with Louis trembling and breathless with anticipation of the next, before he pushes Louis’ legs slightly apart and finishes off with a hard swat to the tender skin of each inner thigh before a final smack square across the top of Louis’ thighs. Louis is sniffling by the time Harry transfers the hairbrush to his left hand so he can rub his right hand over Louis’ reddened skin. 

“Do you think you’ve had enough?” Harry asks softly. He thinks he already knows the answer but he needs to hear it from Louis. This isn’t like spanking Louis with his hand while Louis ruts against his thigh. The hairbrush _hurts_.

“No,” Louis says in a very small voice.

“You want more?” Harry traces the red marks he’s left on Louis’ inner thighs, pushing Louis’ legs a little further apart so he can see them better. He deliberately doesn’t touch Louis’ cock, soft now.

“I-I don’t know,” Louis whispers, squirming. 

“I’m not going to ask again. Do you want more?” Harry pushes. “Yes or no.” He can’t see much of Louis’ face but Louis’ ears are flushed bright red with the humiliation of being put across Harry’s lap and spanked and made to ask for more.

Louis hesitates. “Y-yes,” he says eventually, so quiet Harry can barely hear him. And then, almost as an afterthought, “ _Please_.”

“Five more,” Harry tells him decisively. “Maybe I was too easy on you before.” 

Louis nods, though Harry’s not sure whether it’s in agreement or acceptance. 

“Hold still for me,” Harry tells him.

Harry takes the hairbrush back and clamps his free hand down over Louis’ lower back, holding Louis in place as he brings his other hand back. He doesn’t tease Louis this time; just gives him the promised five smacks of the hairbrush in a rapid crescendo of stinging smacks that has Louis squirming and kicking, and finally crying out as Harry lands the final smack. 

“All right,” Harry tells him soothingly, letting the hairbrush drop to the floor so he can rub Louis’ back. “It’s all done. You’re done. You did it. You did so well.”

Louis’ breathing hitches, and he’s shaking, clutching at Harry when Harry eases him up, and finally crying against Harry’s shoulder; raw, wracking sobs. Harry knows it’s not really the pain that has Louis so distraught - Louis’ skin is reddened and sore now but Harry very rarely spanks him hard enough to properly bruise. He holds Louis close, rubbing his back soothingly, until the storm has passed and Louis has no more tears to cry.

“It’s done,” Harry tells him again. “It’s all right, it’s done.”

Louis mouths weakly at Harry’s collarbone, still shaky and loose-limbed. “Want to be good,” he mumbles. “Love you.”

“You _are_ good,” Harry says. “So good for me, Lou. Love you too.”

He puts Louis on his knees on the floor, fetching his pacifier from the box to keep him calm while Harry tidies up and fetches a flannel from the bathroom to wash Louis’ tear-stained face. It’s not a night to do anything else, so he dresses Louis in a sleepsuit and gets him into bed and Louis is asleep before Harry has even turned off the light.

 


End file.
